The Watchful Pack
Harry sat on the worn leather couch in his living room, staring at the faint flickering of candlelight against the walls. The silence was thick, wrapping around him like an old, familiar cloak.
He should have been used to it by now.
He liked being alone.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
But ever since Scott's attack, ever since Peter had looked at him with something far too knowing, far too understanding, solitude felt heavier than before.
And the pack—Merlin, the pack—was getting worse.
They weren't just around anymore. They were always there.
Subtle, but suffocating.
He'd walk outside to find Stiles sitting on his porch with two coffees, claiming it was a "coincidence."
Malia had taken to appearing in his backyard at odd hours, casually lounging in her coyote form as if she belonged there.
Derek had fixed his fence without being asked.
Lydia kept leaving books on his doorstep—books he actually wanted to read, which was more alarming than the act itself.
And Peter?
Peter didn't hover like the others. He watched.
Measured. Calculated.
Like a predator waiting for Harry to realize something before making his move.
It was annoying.
It was unnerving.
And most infuriating of all?
It was comforting.